Adventures in Brotherhood
by lenticular cloud
Summary: Taking care of a little brother is tough at the best of times, and even more so when he can't know you're alive and leading a revolution. Shades of Lieumon.
1. The Basket

"The latest surveillance on the Council, sir."

Amon's heart pounded a little harder, but he turned calmly enough on his heel. "Excellent," he said, keeping the impatience out of his voice. "Sort through them, Lieutenant, except for one. I'll take the report on the new Councilman."

His Lieutenant nodded, handed over the pertinent report unsmiling, but Amon saw the admiring worship, ever-present, in his goggled eyes. No questions. It made sense, after all, for the leader of the Equalists to learn as much as he personally could about a potential new threat.

The mask was a blessing, hid his wide eyes and the way he bit his lip as he opened the report and was faced with a covert photo of Councilman Tarrlok. Black and white, leaving a building, but Amon could picture the blues of his coat, the tawny highlights of his hair.

So confident. So ambitious. So unlike the pleading child he'd abandoned.

Resorting to hostile reports to learn about his brother was, in no conceivable way, healthy, but it was all Amon had, so after taking in the new, sharp details of Tarrlok's face, he turned to the closely written sheets.

Meetings, of course. Frictions in his interactions with Tenzin; Amon approved and disapproved both. His brother was a politician, and all sources indicated that he was a good one. He should have been able to charm any opponent. On the other hand, the airbender really was a pompous old windbag, pun unintended.

A rich social life. Galas, events, fund-raisers, a steady stream of fair-weather friends held in suitably low regard. A number of, as it were, independent older women, vying for Tarrlok's attention. Amon wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that, couldn't help but imagine them trying to take advantage of an innocent brother that hadn't existed for decades.

And no actual friends, which was a wise move for a politician, but worrisome for a brother.

Lastly, a long list that, for a moment, Amon mistook for a grocery list until he recognised the names. Restaurants, and few of them high-end. Usually take-out from wherever was closest, and it proved a motley run-down of junk food, rolls, street-side soups and yet more junk food. What the hell had Tarrlok been eating? Amon flipped back to the photo, and looked it over again with a far more paranoid eye. Was Tarrlok perhaps looking a little wan? Did his shoulders droop just a bit? Perhaps an uncomfortable edge to that practised smile?

No. No! It would not do!

"Lieutenant," he said sharply.

The man snapped to attention immediately. "Sir?"

"I need you to arrange for a… a present to be sent to Councilman Tarrlok." It finally occurred to him that he needed a better explanation than _have you seen what he's eating?_and he turned to face his Lieutenant, calm as he could. "For now, we would be well-served by," by what? dammit, think! "making him," dinner? that was ridiculous, "comfortable in the city. Think himself safer than he is." Yes. That was good. It even drove the bemusement from the Lieutenant's eyes. Amon fully expected more questions tonight, in private, but for now it did nicely.

"Of course, sir," he said. "What sort of present?"

* * *

Tarrlok stared at the basket as if it would bite him.

"Oh, looks like someone has another secret admirer," his secretary clucked, setting down a stack of paper on the corner of his desk. "What's that say? 'To your health'? How thoughtful!"

"What," Tarrlok said, carefully picking up one of the fruits nestled artistically in a nest of green leaves, "is this thing?" It was round and spiked and not much bigger than to rest comfortably in his palm. It looked deadly, in his opinion.

"That's a pineorange," his secretary said. "Just grab a spike and peel it. They're very healthy, chock-full of vitamins. Someone's looking out for you!"

"I suppose someone is," Tarrlok said, still staring at the horrible little thing as if it was about to explode. "I think I'd prefer a card, though."


	2. The Photo

_Far less humorous than the previous story, but it's still set firmly in the same series. Thank you all for the reviews! This is not so much one coherent story as a collection of smaller ones, though I won't rule out that there might be one or two connected narratives in the future._

* * *

The floor was tile, polished to an amethystine sheen, reflecting the light streaming in from a wall filled generously with large windows. A stylish bookcase stood across the room, facing the desk like a supplicant.

It looked designed.

It was designed. The finest interior architects had been promptly hired and set to work, meeting their client's demands for elegant authority. There were subtle carvings in the door, subdued lights in the walls, the faintest patterns in the tile.

There were no pictures of family. No personal artefacts. Every book in that sleek bookcase concerned economy, political theory and waterbending.

Councilman Tarrlok also had a beautiful home. An upscale apartment in the richer part of town, where the streets were lined with stately trees, planted in the time of Avatar Aang, and private parks occupied the spaces between buildings. Every door was ornate, every window adorned with masterful brick-work.

Here too cool shades of blue dominated. Every room had a small, gurggling fountain, or a sheet of water running smoothly down a polished wall. Murals in muted colours depicted scenes from history and legend; here the Siege of the North, there the first waterbenders raising their hands to the Moon.

Beautiful. Stylish. Impersonal.

It seemed that the only inheritance Tarrlok had brought with him from the North Pole was his elaborate hair and a preference for the colour blue.

But tucked away in his personal desk - the one at home, the one in carved driftwood that was, perhaps, not as impressive as the one in his office, seeing as it was meant for aesthetics rather than a display of power - in a locked drawer, beneath piles of paperwork that might not be, if one were to be kind, entirely legal, there was a picture.

An old photo, grainy, yellowed, stained from the instability of those early chemicals, but the motive was clear enough. Two boys, one around four, the other around seven, both smiling widely, the older clutching the younger close with an arm around his shoulders. His eyes are kind, his gesture, though possessive, warm and protective. He's dressed in finery, fur-lined and embroidered, and his short hair is pulled up in a warrior's wolf-tail, round face framed by two loose locks.

The younger is clutching at his brother, even while smiling like a small lunatic, as if unsure how to react to the camera pointed at him. His hands are curled in the older's parka, and his face - half turned away - is pressed against the brother's shoulder. A small, dishevelled tuft of a ponytail can just be seen over his shoulder.

Happy, safe and laughing.

Tarrlok tended to forget the photo was there, locked away, hidden along with everything else he wanted no one to see. The only memory of a family he should have never had.

* * *

Amon had only a bedroom to his name. Everything else was for the Equalists. The vast, sprawling tunnels that were for stocking, training, hiding, and Amon had claimed only a small room for himself, just big enough to hold a bed, a dresser, a small desk and - on occasion - a Lieutenant.

It was ascetic, to say the least. The walls were bare concrete, lit by a single harsh lamp, and the bed was a narrow bunk shoved into a corner. The only thing pointing to this being something other than a cell for a prisoner or a particularly ill-tempered hermit was the piles of books stacked on the floor, and the large, closely scribbled map stuck to the wall behind the desk.

It was a place for sleeping and a place for planning.

Not for living.

The desk was cheap; thin, unvarnished wood on a rickety steel frame, with a single locked drawer beneath it, set at just the right place to bump your knee into. Amon never did, but the Lieutenant had a few times.

He didn't know what was in the drawer, and he didn't ask. Whatever else they shared, Amon kept his secrets and they haunted the man enough that the Lieutenant didn't want to ask.

But there were nights when he woke up less cramped in the tiny bed than he should have been, always on nights of the full moon where nightmares kept his leader from sleep no matter how the Lieutenant tired him, and saw Amon bent over the desk by the light of a candle. The drawer unlocked and open, a battered tin-box on the desktop, and clenched so hard in Amon's slim fingers that it might have torn, a yellowed old photo with lines criss-crossing; carefully folded into quarters, and just as carefully unfolded.

He didn't ask, didn't let on, didn't intrude.

Even with Amon's face hidden, his eyes lost in the shadows of the mask, the Lieutenant knew grief when he saw it.


End file.
